Camping with the Boy Scouts

I don't know how many of you know this, but I am a Boy Scout.  Yes, this is Eleanor.  You see, the Scouts here have been coed for years-- only they never actually changed the name.  I'm in the group that's age sixteen to, well, whenever you quit, around twenty-one or so.
This weekend we had our first camping trip of the season!  Sunday was to be the opening of the new season (yes, at the end of October!), celebrated in a town 13 km away.  So of course, we were going to hike and camp the night out up there-- what else?
We started off by driving a little ways to the start of the hiking trail so that we wouldn't have to walk along the autostrada.  Then we hiked.  And hiked.  We clambered down dirt paths, skirted around freshly plowed  fields, skipped over rivulets, and a few of us slid down some of the hills on our bottoms (well, nearly) because of the mud.  Because, yes, it was the one rainy day of the month.  It actually started off beautifully, cool but warm enough that we were all sweating in our sky-blue shirts and navy-blue shorts as we made our way up the hills.  Every so often it would sprinkle just enough to cool us off.
Just as we were starting to pant a little, we came across a house with an apple tree next to the road.  The apples were the best I've ever tasted-- tiny (1 1/2" diameter) but crisp and flavorful.  After two or three each, we continued onward, after admiring the view of our starting point, now several mountaintops away.
Right around the time that we reached the paved road, it started to rain.  For real, this time.  At first I barely noticed it, but after a little while I tried to rub my hands together to warm them up, only to discover to my (rather numb) surprise that the were as wet as if I'd been running them under the faucet!  So I did the only thing that I could: shrugged and kept walking.
About twenty minutes after we started to feel sorry for ourselves (and three, four hours after we started the trek) we came to the church that was hosting the event.  And waited outside for ten minutes while they tried to figure out what to do with us.  Eventually we made our way to the other side of town (a sweet place, inhabitants numbering in the hundreds), where we found an empty yard in a neighborhood and a tiny church with "1495" inscribed above the door.  This would prove to be our home base.  We stomped the mud off of our shoes as best we were able, wiped off our hands on any dry surface we could find, and tramped inside.  Wearily, we plunked our backpacks down and dragged some of the pews over to make a semicircle.  Changed clothes.  Plotted.
I went out with a couple others to meet the Scouts who had opted not to walk but to drive up with the supplies for the celebration the next day, as well as the firewood.  Yes, we were in the middle of town, but what does that have to do with campfires?  We built one right across the road from the church later that night, although I did have to describe to them what s'mores are!
For dinner, we regrouped inside of the church, pulled out the gas stoves, and prepared whatever we had brought-- in this case, the girls had breaded chicken (fried in olive oil, of course, carried up in an old water bottle) and peas.  The boys ate spaghetti.
After setting up our tents in the field during a break in the rain, we said goodnight around midnight.  I actually slept really well, despite sitting up in the middle of the night and scaring my tentmate half to death.  In the morning, while we were fighting to pack up the tents in freezing, blow-you-over wind, the others were all sharing their horror stories of sleeplessness.  I just stifled a yawn and breathed on my hands.
As soon as the tents were put away, we made a dash for the church and started on breakfast-- coffee and cookies.  We jumped around a little to keep ourselves from freezing to death (the Scouts uniform requires shorts), cleaned up the chapel, and made our way back to the first church-- let the festivities begin!  But that's for my mother to share...
Eleanor